


For they were made to burn

by eldritcher



Series: The Song of Sunset Third Age [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:17:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Elrohir and Elladan have antics that lead Elrond to remember his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For they were made to burn

×××

1st Age,  
Ered Lindon.

 

“You did not!” Maglor exclaimed in horror as Elros finished his tale.

“He did, Ada.” 

Elrond smiled smugly as he kicked a lump of coal from the heap that lay beside him. Coal was a precious commodity, something Maedhros never failed to remind them, for it was dearly bought from the Dwarves. 

“I was hardly-” Elros began in earnest defense of himself. He hastily cut off his words when the door opened.

Maedhros looked at them, mild concern on his features. His eyes darted to his brother’s frowning face before he glared at Elros.

“What did you do now?”

“How can you be sure that it wasn’t Elrond?” Elros asked interestedly. 

Maglor groaned and looked helplessly at his brother. Maedhros sighed and stepped in, closing the door after him.

“Instincts,” Maedhros said smiling. “What did you do anyway?”

“He went to the…the brothel that some of our men frequent during his last journey south.” Maglor said angrily. 

Maedhros stared at him for a long moment in incredulity before clarifying, “Did you, Elros?”

“I did.” Elros raised his eyebrows in a manner eerily reminiscent of his foster-father who stood fuming beside him. 

“Why?” Maedhros gathered whatever patience he had possessed. He should have sent them to Gil-Galad a long time ago. 

“He dared me.” Elros crossed his arms over his chest defiantly and shot a dark look at his brother.

“Why?” 

This was directed at Elrond, who was doing his best not to burst out laughing at the pitiable expression on Maedhros’s face. Maglor was now muttering under his breath about ‘the curse of Elwing’. Elrond grinned at that. Though others might have taken it as an insult, the twins merely considered this phrase a token of paternal affection brought to Maglor’s lips when his nerves were much tried by their misadventures. 

“We had a wager,” Elrond explained.

“I see.” 

Maedhros fought the urge to pinch his nose. It would not do. His brother was already in a temper. He needed to stay calm and keep his wits about if he were to win a verbal duel with the twins.

“It is well within your rights to visit a brothel or a tavern if you so wish,” Maedhros conceded after a moment’s reflection.

Elrond stared at his brother baffled. This had not been anticipated at all. They had been sure that they would finally break down Maedhros’s proverbial patience.

“Russandol-” Maglor began heatedly.

“No, brother,” Maedhros said easily, “they are right. We have been over-protecting them.”

Maglor drew himself to his full height and hissed at his brother, “A brothel!”

“They are of age. You cannot command them,” Maedhros winked at Elrond. 

“Lord Maedhros?” Elrond asked unsurely. The sparkle in the grey eyes warned him of impending disaster.

“Should one of you contract a disease from the partner you choose, I beg you, spare us the news,” Maedhros said serenely. “Dares and wagers seem to matter so little at the other end of the road when you are ill, disgraced and the object of general ridicule.”

Elrond paled. He had not thought of that. He glanced at his brother, who was now chewing his nails industriously. Horrid imagination brought to his mind a memory; of a disgraced man clad in ill-fitting cast-offs and scavenging on a hillside. Then Maglor had explained to the twins about the stigma of such diseases. 

“We did not--” Elrond cleared his throat to prevent the hoarseness from breaking his voice down completely.

“I know you did not.” Maedhros came to stand before him. “But were it to happen, don’t tell us. We cannot bear another loss.”

Elrond nodded his head weakly. Maedhros was right. They had recklessly risked their health and reputation for a night of revelry in the arms of people they had not even known the names of. 

“Now,” Maglor cut in, dispelling the somberness, “shall we sup? I am weary of being regaled by your juvenile exploits. I’d eat and retire early if I were you.”

Elros had recovered entirely and was now in his perpetual good humour. He winked at his brother before asking Maglor, “Ada, have you gone to a brothel?”

“In our youth, courtesans were popular than brothels,” Maglor said noncommittally. 

Elrond considered his foster-father’s calm a mark of how used to the twins Maglor had become. Maedhros had pretended not to hear Elros’s question though the widening of his eyes testified his shock.

“That doesn’t answer my question, Ada!” Elros complained impishly as he drew a seat beside Maglor.

Maglor raised his eyebrows and ladled soup into his brother’s bowl before answering dignifiedly, “Even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. Now eat, you scamp, lest you want to be sent to bed without supper.”

“You are all scary talk and no bite, you know that,” Elros said equably before winking at his brother who was finding his mirth very hard to suppress.

“My Lord,” a warrior entered and bowed to Maedhros.

“If you would excuse me,” Maedhros said distractedly before following the warrior out of the dining chamber.

Maglor set his spoon down and pursed his lips in consternation. Elrond knew well the reason for his foster-father’s worry. Maedhros tended to ignore basic needs like food and sleep until he was driven to exhaustion. While on patrols, Elrond would take on Maglor’s duty and nag Maedhros to eat and sleep. But even then there was only so much that nagging could accomplish. 

“Henceforth I will ask the warriors not to interrupt us while we are at a meal,” Elros said reassuringly as he clasped Maglor’s wrist.

×××

 

“Do you think that the brothel was a bad idea?” Elrond asked his brother as they walked to their chambers.

Elros paused before his door and said happily, “It was not a bad idea, brother. It was the most appalling idea we have had!”

“What makes you so gleeful about that?” Elrond enquired angrily. “Maedhros is disappointed in us.”

“No, he is not.” Elros shrugged as he patted his brother’s shoulder. “He is merely glad that we will not do it again.”

“We shouldn’t have confessed,” Elrond said doubtfully.

“You are a very endearingly foolish brother,” Elros chuckled as he opened his door and stepped into the chamber. “Do you really think that Maedhros would let us go unaccompanied by Ada or himself if he had not ensured that a legion of trustworthy spies was tracking our every movement? He cares too much.”

Elrond could think of no answer to that. The door closed in his face. He sighed and made his way back to the dining chamber. He still felt as their doings merited an apology. He would speak to his father.

×××

 

Elrond paused as he heard voices within the chamber. Maedhros seemed to have returned. Elrond slid the chamber door open gently and then stopped still as he viewed the scene within.

Maglor was seated cross-legged on the table. Maedhros sat on his chair, a fond smile gracing his features as he watched his brother. Elrond stared in incredulous amusement as his foster-father ladled the soup from the bowl and brought the spoon to Maedhros’s mouth.

“Must you?” Maedhros complained half-heartedly as he opened his mouth dutifully, 

“If you will not eat what is set before you, I will have to devise alternative measures.” Maglor quirked an eyebrow before bringing a second offering to his brother’s lips. 

Elrond watched the scene unfold with a sense of deep warmth flooding him. With the warm firelight casting flattering shadows on the tableau, they seemed young and unburdened. Elrond knew he was trespassing and should leave. But he could not bring himself to stop gazing lovingly at the only parents he had known. The ease on Maglor’s part told Elrond that this was not a first-time occurrence. Certainly, the brothers must have performed this service for each other when sick, incapacitated or merely weary. 

“Have you visited a brothel?” Maedhros asked mischievously as he tried to push the spoon away. 

“No!” Maglor seemed scandalized at the question. “I believe that continued exposure to the twins is corrupting you, Russandol.”

“I do apologize.” Maedhros laughed, neatly evading the gentle cuff his brother dealt him.

“As you should. But since it seems to be a night for prying, let me ask, have you visited a brothel? Open your mouth. I shall not be satisfied unless you complete at least twelve more spoonfuls.” 

Maedhros sighed in resignation and complied. After swallowing the soup, he said solemnly, “Once.”

“When?” Maglor’s voice had an edge. Elrond was glad that he was not at the receiving end of it. 

“Recently. Last month, if I recall correctly.” Maedhros looked up innocently at his brother, his grey eyes gleaming in the firelight.

“What were you doing there?” Maglor’s voice had gone an octave lower. Elrond was definitely happy not to be in Maglor’s bad books right then.

“Don’t you trust me?” Maedhros looked aggrieved as he pushed his chair back and made to get up.

“Oh no, you shall not move unless you tell me the truth!” Maglor hissed angrily, uncaring of the picture he made with his eyes gleaming and his fingers brandishing a spoon.

“I went there to make enquiries about the twins’ doings. I didn’t want to take the remotest chance that they had been tricked by some unscrupulous person there.” 

“Hmmm…”Maglor scooped up the last of the soup and imperiously beckoned his brother nearer. 

“Am I forgiven?” Maedhros asked with a teasing smile.

“No, of course not,” Maglor rolled his eyes. “I will exact revenge.”

“I look forward to your devious schemes, brother.” Maedhros laughed as he wiped his mouth and stood up, “For now, I must retire.”

Elrond hastily made his way back to his chamber before he was caught eavesdropping. The scene he had just witnessed made me him feel at peace…real peace. He would not tell Elros. His brother would never cease spinning tasteless jokes at this warm, fraternal picture . Elrond did not want that. He would treasure the memory.

×××

 

“Charcoal,” Maglor began exasperatedly, “is not meant to colour your fingernails.”

Elros looked up impishly and said, “It serves the purpose too.”

“If my father had ever--” Maglor started.

“Yes, yes,” Elrond cut him off hastily, “the legendary Fëanor would have disinherited us if we had even dared blink in his presence.”

“He was not that bad,” Maglor smiled despite his ire. 

“Do you know how to paint with charcoal, Ada?” Elros diverted the subject. “A woman I met could do miniatures in charcoal.”

“I’d be willing to try if you will promise to give my poor nerves a reprieve from your exploits for the next two weeks.” Maglor offered barter after a moment of consideration.

“You must have really been tried by our doings then.” Elrond laughed as he washed his hands and joined his father on the steps.

“I would not dream of admitting that is true,” Maglor quirked his lips before entering the house. 

“We need a subject,” Elros decreed as he helped Elrond haul a canvas into the chamber. 

“We shall start with a harmless teapot.” Elrond picked up one and shoved it to the centre of the table.

“We need a grand subject!” Elros protested. “The three of us are going to collaborate on this endeavour. We need a subject worthy of us.”

“You are right. We need a live model,” Elrond obliged. “I will call in the pretty lass who sewed the red tunic for me. She is worthy enough.”

“I demand equality,” Elros said determinedly. “I wish to call the tavern-keeper’s sister.”

“We will have to compromise,” Elrond laughed. “Half of the painting shall be my tailor and the other half can be your barmaid.”

“Which half shall be yours?” Elros asked calculatingly.

“That is the most repelling conversation I have had the misfortune to overhear!” Maglor remarked as he entered the room and surveyed the canvas with deep suspicion. His eyes gleamed as he took in the preparations. “But I agree that we need a live model.”

“You have an idea,” Elrond said doubtfully. Most of Maglor’s ideas walked the line between madness and genius.

“I have.” Maglor smirked as Maedhros walked in blissfully ignorant of the happenings. “Brother, would you care to pose for a charcoal portrait?”

Maedhros stopped humming under his breath and his eyes widened in apprehension as he viewed the occupants and the setting.

“I beg your pardon?” Elrond could sympathize with the faint fear that escaped Maedhros’s calm gaze.

“We have decided to employ ourselves in an industrious manner this winter. Charcoal painting,” Elros explained gleefully.

“That is wonderful to know.” Maedhros tested the waters suspiciously, his eyes moving from one person to the next in wariness. “I must be going now.”

“We need a live model,” Elrond contributed.

“I am sure that I could persuade someone recuperating to be a live model,” Maedhros said politely as he backed out.

“I would appreciate a private word with you,” Maglor swept past Elrond and slid the door shut after them.

“I am sure that we will get our live model,” Elros sniggered as they heard raised voices from without.

Elrond couldn’t help joining in his brother’s mirth as a sulky Maedhros trailed into the room after a triumphant Maglor.

×××

 

“It is the most trying thing I have been forced to endure!” Maedhros was complaining for the tenth time as he fidgeted impatiently.

“Stay still, Lord Maedhros,” Elrond said briskly as he worked on the canvas.

“Indeed,” Maglor admonished as he walked to his brother’s side. Maedhros was seated on the ledge of the window, his legs drawn up with his hand wrapped around them and his chin on his knees.

“If you will shift around, we will be able to capture your eyes,” Elros opined as he broke a charcoal chunk experimentally. 

“I would have painted the three of you in seven different positions by now,” Maedhros muttered under his breath.

“Do you paint, Lord Maedhros?” Elrond asked curiously. 

Maedhros was horribly reticent about the past. Maglor was not much talkative about it either, preferring to hide behind shady allusions and occasional wistful tales about their youth. This did not prevent the twins from using every malleable situation to delve more into their guardians’ past. 

“I used to be a tolerable painter.” Maedhros shrugged as he pushed an unruly lock of hair from his face. “Father was adamant that we learn something of the arts. Now, Macalaurë, on the other hand, is a hopeless painter. I frankly must admit that the two of you are as artistically inclined as Turkáno had been, which is to say, not artistic at all. Why don’t you give up?”

“It is because of your fidgeting,” Maglor said pertly. “I promise you that we shall render a magnificent portrait if you would remain still.”

Maedhros grimaced and threw his hand up in resignation. “This is the last time you persuade me for such a farcical enterprise!”

Elrond glanced out of the window. It was near dusk. Stormclouds obscured the sun making the skies dark. They had begun this task shortly after breakfast.

“Continue.” Maglor beckoned to the twins. Maedhros glared, but remained as he was instructed to. 

A clap of thunder made them jerk in surprise. Elrond looked out and smiled as he saw nature’s drama. A shaft of the sun burst forth through the darkness of the clouds and struck Maedhros’s form. 

“The sun is persistent indeed,” Maedhros remarked as he relaxed and leant back against the windowsill languidly. 

Elrond had never seen anything as magnificent as the scene before him then. Maedhros’s pale, aristocratic features seemed all splendor and sharpness as the sunlight fell upon them. The grey eyes reflected the storm even as they reflected the fire of the sun. The unruly hair that refused to stay put despite its owner’s best efforts blazed crimson in the fury of that stormy dusk. A raindrop erred from its path and struck his cheek, slowly making its way down his chiselled features. He sighed and stretched, seeming almost boneless in repose as he watched the impending storm trying to quell the defiance of sunset. 

“I shall one day compose an ode to you, brother,” Maglor said quietly before resuming his task of correcting the canvas. “Perhaps I shall call it ‘The Song of Sunset’.”

Elrond turned away from the glorious, heart-wrenching, metaphoric sight to begin the portrait. 

×××

 

2nd Age,  
The city of Lindon.

“Cousin,” Gil-Galad entered Elrond’s chambers and found him with a lump of charcoal in his hands.

“Yes, Gil?” Elrond shoved the charcoal into his robes, out of the sight of prying eyes.

Gil-Galad did not reply immediately. He knew well the torment of memories. After a moment’s indecision, he said easily, “I would be happy for company. I wished to ride.”

“I shall be honoured to accompany you, cousin.”

×××

 

Glorfindel watched the young half-elf laboring over a charcoal sketch. He made his way to the deeply engrossed Elrond and politely cleared his throat. Elrond looked up alarmed. 

“I did not mean to disturb you, Lord Elrond,” Glorfindel said gently. 

“It is no disturbance, but much-needed distraction.” Elrond chewed his charcoal-tainted fingernails as he viewed the half-complete sketch.

Glorfindel moved closer to see the subject. He inhaled sharply as he recognized the poorly done, yet unmistakable features.

“Lord Glorfindel?” Elrond’s tone held a tone of defiance.

“He is mourned,” Glorfindel offered lamely. “He touched the lives of all those who knew him, Elrond, even when he did not mean to. He is deeply mourned.”

Elrond knew well the charisma of Maedhros Fëanorion. How often had he remained silent and still as he watched Maedhros? How often had he chanced upon his brother writing an infatuated ode? His brother…Elrond sighed; his brother was now the king of Númenor. 

Glorfindel could not find any words of comfort. What would one say to sooth a young soul that had lost parents, foster-father, guardian and brother in a very short period of time? He placed a hand on Elrond’s shoulder

×××

 

3rd Age,  
Imladris.

 

“My dear Elladan!” Glorfindel exclaimed in part-terror and part-amusement, “Whatever are you doing up there?”

“What does it look like?” Elladan called back irritably. “Hanging Ada Elrond’s first attempt at sketching above the porch of the Last Homely Home to the West.”

“He’s likely to hang you when he sees it!” Glorfindel hissed as a couple of elves came to gawk at the unusual sight of the young half-elf teetering atop the dome above the porch, a well-preserved sketch in his hand. 

Glorfindel shook his head in faint amusement as he reminisced; Elrond had clutched the scroll to his heart when he had been parted from Maglor. It had been a combined effort…Elrond’s inexperienced and untalented hands trying to work in tandem with Maglor’s experienced yet equally untalented hands to capture the fell beauty of Maedhros Fëanorion on parchment. Elrond had spent days and nights trying to complete the sketch after coming to Lindon.

“He lost a wager.” Elrohir came up and watched his twin amusedly.

“And his wise brother set this penance?” Glorfindel enquired sarcastically. “It is as well that the two of you never attend councils! At your age…”

“At our age, Ada Elrond was a wise healer and warrior; Ada Erestor was the chief-counsellor, the administrator and married; Naneth was an accomplished lady honoured in all courts, Gildor was already a wanderer of repute, Thranduil had bedded half of elvendom, you had already battled a balrog…have I left out anything?” Elrohir responded with droll sarcasm.

“ELBERETH!” Lindir came to stand beside Glorfindel. “What madness are you up to, Elladan? Come down immediately, lest you hurt yourself.”

“Laiqua scampers over the entire castle without earning a glare from his esteemed father,” Elrohir commented.

Elladan had finished unscrolling and straightening the parchment and was laboriously nailing it from the ceiling. Cries arose from the onlookers as they saw the subject of the sketch.

“ELLADAN!” Erestor’s voice was shocked. “YOU NUMBSKULL!”

“And a son of an orc,” Glorfindel chimed in helpfully, earning a withering glare from Erestor. 

“Erestor!” Elrond came down the porch stairs. “You really should learn to relax, I say. You are working yourself to nerves.”

“Look up and you’ll know nerves,” Glorfindel said solicitously. “Elrond, I have always been suspicious about the lasting effects of that draught you gave Elladan when he was down with an arrow wound not so long ago.”

“What the---”, Elrond started. 

Glorfindel pushed his jaw upwards; Elrond looked up to see the frail parchment fluttering in the breeze, a banner of the past. His eyes widened as he saw the sketch. The burnished, red tresses to which neither Maglor nor he had done justice to in that deplorable caricature; the sharp, aristocratic features that Elros had been besotted with; the tormented eyes that had always softened when they rested on loved ones. The stark charcoal sketch did not highlight the contrast between the dark hair and the pale, noble mien of Maedhros. 

Elrond sighed even as Erestor placed a reassuring hand on his wrist. Elladan jumped down and sidled nervously to Glorfindel’s side; an old habit. The Balrog-slayer had always been his protector whenever he had been on the receiving side of one of Elrond’s explosions or Erestor’s rarer, but volcanic Fëanorian temper tantrums.

“I GET IT!” Elrond laughed much to the amazement of all who surrounded him. “Elladan! Remind me to get the cook to prepare all your delicacies tonight for dinner, my dear son!”

“It isn’t the draught then,” Elrohir said to Glorfindel. “It’s inheritance.”

“Elrond, whatever do you mean?” Erestor asked worriedly as he regarded the parchment fluttering bravely in the wind.

“A banner; an insignia, a coat of arms…” Elrond shrugged. “We haven’t put up anything. I want you to have the craftsmen make a coat of arms of our house as soon as you can. Those elves at the smithies listen more to you.”

“You want to hang the coat of arms of our house?” Erestor asked for confirmation. “With due respect to our coat of arms, I think we might do better to hang a warg’s head up here.”

×××

 

4th Age,  
Aboard a ship bound west.

 

Elrond watched the sunset pensively. So many memories, all woven together to form a tight band that constricted his chest whenever he looked upon this wonder of nature…

“Elrond.” Thranduil came to stand by his side, his features set grimly as he glanced west.

“My dear, dear friend,” Elrond sighed as he clasped Thranduil’s hand. “I fear that my brother had chosen more prudently than I did.”

The sun was lazily slipping down the sealine. A worker carried a bucket of coal to light fires in the cabins. Charcoal, Elrond felt a pang of fear in his heart.

Thranduil asked quietly as he pointed to the other side of the deck, “Would you give that up?”

Erestor was speaking to Galadriel, his features earnest and animated as he gestured to emphasize his argument. The last sunrays cast a lingering crimson splendor on his form even as Elrond and Thranduil watched. 

“No,” Elrond turned to his friend. “I would never give that up.”

×××FINIS×××

 

References:  
The Journal of Maglor  
Inheritance  
The Song of Sunset, The 3rd Age  
The Testament


End file.
